Resolution
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: At the end of 'The Last Horizon', both Rishooter and Lesa L felt that the situation between Trip and T'Pol that was referred to in it required resolution. So here it is... dedicated to them both!
1. Chapter 1: T'Pol

**Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.**

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 _"Ashal-veh!"_

The words were out, and once out, they could not be recalled.

Nor, for the first few moments of passionate reunion, did T'Pol wish to recall them. The sensation of her Bondmate's arms around her was the sensation of the long dislocation of her _katra_ coming to an end, and his mouth on hers in one long, frantic kiss was like a drink of ice-cold water after crossing the Forge.

Vulcan was a largely desert planet, and Vulcans had evolved to cope relatively well with heat and thirst. But although they had spent centuries learning to control their turbulent emotions – so much stronger than those of Humans – those emotions remained within; however closely caged they might be, still they were there, and woe betide anyone who unleashed them and then stood in their way.

Behind her, a reunion was in progress; with her help, a dying man had somehow turned back from the very gate of death in answer to his wife's call. But although the event would doubtless be seen as something close to a miracle as far as the hospital was concerned, right now it was very far from being the first of her concerns.

So long apart – _so long–!_

Trip released her, but only so that he could hug her to him again, and more closely than before if that were possible.

There should have been something absolutely abhorrent in being rocked and hugged and kissed without the slightest regard for the fact that they were not even alone in the room. It was _completely inappropriate_ for her to melt against his strong body, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and tasting again the flare of a passion that had ignited back on board _Enterprise_ and lain dormant until now.

So it was, but that did not seem nearly a good enough reason to stop. The two of them were not the center of attention for anyone else in the room, but at that moment they were the center of the Universe for each other.

She had denied it. She had defied it. She had listened to the voice of logic and the dictates of her people, many of whom would have viewed a liaison between her and a Human male as something not a long step removed from bestiality. Even the most open-minded would have seen in it a recipe for disaster.

But going even further back than logic and tradition was the reverence accorded to a mating bond. Once formed it could only be dissolved by a trained priest, and even then the act was performed with sorrow and reluctance, for such a joining was a gift not granted to many. Married couples might spend years building and nursing such a connection of their minds and katras and still never come to such an intimacy of thought and heart as she and Trip had achieved.

For many reasons, few of which had stood the test of time, the two of them had never been fully honest with each other. The anguish of their unresolved issues had finally driven them apart, he to immerse himself in his work for Starfleet and she to take up service with the High Command, finally being granted captaincy of the _K'Hatek_ the previous year.

Distance and the pressure of her career had gone some way towards numbing the pain she had refused to acknowledge. Regrets – there would always be regrets, and the sadness of parting from her old colleagues aboard _Enterprise_ had been surprisingly deep; but she'd reminded herself that she was a Vulcan, and that to continue with a liaison that was ultimately doomed to bring the two of them more misery than happiness was illogical. Logic, she had told herself, was the ultimate arbiter of wise action.

Logic, however, had little to say about the joy of being in _his_ arms again, and drinking in the scent of his unique body-smell infused with the sandalwood hygiene products he preferred. She remembered being able to pick up the faint scent of sandalwood in the corridors of _Enterprise_ and knowing he had passed recently – there were times when a Vulcan's acute sense of smell was a benefit, even aboard a Human ship.

He was weeping. As she pulled back just a little to study his face, she saw it filled with an emotion that once she would have thought a disgraceful indicator of his species' lack of control. Now, with a gentle fingertip, she lifted one of his tears and joined it to her own.

"Don't you ever, don't you _ever_ , do something that damned stupid, ever again," he whispered, shaking her slightly to reinforce the words.

"I do not plan to make a habit of it." She was quite sure that he had shared at least some of the awful experience she had just endured, and was as shaken by it as she was. Opening her mind to the terrible fear and grief of one friend and entering the abyss of coma in search of another had been so traumatic that it was likely that many nights of meditation would be necessary to restore her mental stability.

Quite probably, but for this event, the two of them would have somehow gone on with their separated lives. Maimed at their core, they would have lived with their disability and coped with it, as those missing a limb or a sense learn to do. He would most probably have mated and married, and raised a family, and found in these things some measure of contentment; and as for herself, even if Koss had never indicated an interest in reviving the betrothal and she would forever be somewhat of an object of speculation on Vulcan after her disobedience in remaining aboard _Enterprise_ in the search for the Xindi weapon, it was probable that she would have received a number of approaches once her respectability had been established and her youthful indiscretions had been at least partially forgotten.

Dully she had supposed that logic would dictate she accept one of these. If she had been able to find a suitor whom she could hold in respect, then affection would doubtless follow; and the _pon'farr_ when it came would enable her to accept his body with eagerness, even if on other occasions she would have been able to offer little more than wifely submission, keeping her mind carefully from _that other time…_

No Bond would have formed, of course, but this did not always happen. If she chose carefully – chose a mate whose career would keep them separated for long periods of their lives – then maybe he would accept that this was simply a result of that separation. Clear-eyed, she had accepted that such a choice would involve her in a life-long deception, unless she might be fortunate enough to find someone open-minded enough to accept her for what she was and still be willing to marry her. The deep trust and togetherness that marriage was supposed to create would otherwise be flawed from the start – yet another item on the long and terrible list of consequences of that one utterly irresponsible act that had followed her addiction to Trellium.

But now, in Trip's arms, she could no longer remember that it had been irresponsible. She could no longer remember that it would have scandalized both Starfleet and the High Command if it had become known. The only consequence that mattered was that they were bound together, body and heart and katra, and that she had torn the last two apart when she had sundered the first. He had wanted to stand and fight, to defy both Starfleet and the High Command, and it had been she who had prided herself on her clear vision in seeing the defeat which then had seemed so utterly inevitable.

"'M I seein' wha' I think I'm seein'?" The mumbled English voice from behind her recalled her briefly to a knowledge of the reaction they could expect, but that no longer mattered. Nothing mattered but that they were together again.

Trip wiped his eyes, and steadied himself visibly. "T'Pol, we've got to talk," he said in a low voice, meant for her ears alone – though there was small chance of anything he said being heard or heeded by anyone else in the room at that moment. "And I mean talk. On our own. And preferably not anywhere there's a bed available."

She nodded reluctantly. Any conversation held in the proximity of such an extremely tempting item of furniture would probably be of extremely short duration.

She would have pulled away, but he was having none of that; he guided her head firmly down to rest against his shoulder, where she was more than happy to let it lie. After so long of being strong, there was something unutterably satisfying in relinquishing control just for a brief time, and opening herself to the wash of relief and joy and welcome coming through the Bond like a dammed river finding its course again.

Duty was calling. She had an appointment with Ambassador Soval, and her plan had been to perform this unpleasant and unexpected favor for Hoshi before resuming her original schedule as soon as possible. But a couple of subsequent (and in all honesty not very determined) efforts to break away were foiled by her Bondmate, who evidently had no intention whatsoever of allowing her out of his sight before they'd had that conversation. Moreover, events soon intervened in a fairly emphatic way of their own: Hoshi went into labor, and it would have taken a man with a heart of stone to leave Lieutenant Commander Reed alone in his hospital room to endure the waiting for his child to be born.

So, perforce, she waited too. And gained a new insight into the warmth of the relationship between the two men, as Trip teased his friend unmercifully in between gently helping him to move in search of a more comfortable position, fetching him cups of tea which had to be administered orally by syringe, and reassuring him constantly that both Hoshi and the baby were in the safest possible hands and that the waiting would be over before he knew it.

To all of which the Englishman responded to with an acerbity hardly moderated by his limited ability to speak, but which Trip accepted with unruffled composure, as well as an exasperating grin when his teasing was particularly effective.

An unspecified number of hours would necessarily pass while Hoshi was in labor. Malcolm having rejected with loathing the suggestion that he might want to watch a film (even one featuring almost innumerable explosions), Trip went to the Recreation Room and obtained the loan of a board game involving the testing of the contestants' general knowledge. After she had roundly defeated both of them twice they had united in declaring that she should miss a go every other turn; two more defeats later and she had cause to inform them that 'Vulcans don't smirk' (or even 'mirk', as one of her accusers phrased it).

Cards were the next form of entertainment, the players gambling with bars of imaginary latinum kept track of on a PADD, and here she enjoyed more limited success. Although there was naturally a great reliance on mathematical probability, still there was the chance factor at work through the cards she was dealt, and she had not had much opportunity to acquire any expertise at poker. Part way through the second game Reed fell into a light, restless doze, and Trip shamelessly appropriated half of his winnings and divided it between the two of them, disregarding her severe whisper reproaching him for his dishonesty. Of course, as soon as Reed woke up again he realized what had happened, appropriated the PADD and took his winnings back, along with an extra three latinum bars from each of them which he claimed was ''nt'r'st'.

"I fail to realize how we have ultimately benefited," T'Pol observed disapprovingly, as she took note of her newly reduced total.

"Aw, there was always a chance he wouldn't notice," Trip said, kissing her.

Reed snorted. "'S my _job_ t' no'ice things."

"Sure. The way you noticed–"

Trip came to a sudden halt, evidently thinking better of what he'd been going to say, but there was little doubt that the lieutenant had followed his train of thought. The restriction to the patient's jaw prevented him from delivering what sounded like a vehement rebuttal in anything like a coherent form, but his face was a study in embarrassed indignation and his glare indicated that this reminder of his failure in observation was distinctly unwelcome. T'Pol, observing his embarrassment, thought it best not to enquire exactly what this had been; the patient's heart monitor was already indicating that his pulse had been adversely affected, and the hospital staff had been adamant that he should not be agitated. Besides, she was sure that it had not led to any very serious consequences – Reed was so exacting in the performance of his duty that he would regard even the smallest failure in it as mortifying.

Commander Tucker had clearly also realized the unkindness of raising what the lieutenant obviously considered a painful topic. He began attempting to close the subject, but at that moment the door opened to admit the young woman who should by all rights have still been in the labor ward downstairs, closely attended by a highly disturbed Ms St Clair, who had probably attempted without success to exercise proper control over her charge. No longer being Hoshi's superior officer, T'Pol abandoned the idea of ordering her to behave in a sensible manner, even though this development could hardly fail to agitate her husband in a way which the hospital staff would certainly deplore. Entering into a dispute would have a low expectation of success and probably exacerbate the patient's agitation still further, so the Vulcan bowed to the inevitable and concentrated her energies on supervising events.

Given the fact that she had never seen a Human give birth before (or, indeed, a Vulcan), and nor apparently had Hoshi's aunt-by-marriage, they were reduced to relying on Trip's expertise, which apparently rested on the fact that he'd once seen someone have a baby on television. T'Pol couldn't help but feel this was extremely inadequate, but apparently the labor had been monitored up to this point and was proceeding normally. Still, it was probably wise for someone to be informed, and so she took advantage of a momentary lull while Hoshi was being settled into cushions on the floor, and slipped out to waylay a passing nurse, who paled and ran off to fetch competent help.

Content that her duty had been done, T'Pol returned to the scene of the crime, where she remained an interested but passive observer while Hoshi continued the process of bringing baby Sherrie Jessa into the world, which she presently accomplished without mishap.

When at last it was time to leave the new parents to bond with their infant, Trip offered to take herself and Ms St Clair out to get something to eat; but as they arrived at the restaurant, the Englishwoman said that she would prefer to take a little stroll in the park nearby, and maybe get herself 'a little something' later. It was entirely probable that she was simply being tactful, and T'Pol suffered a twinge of conscience as they escorted her to the front doors, but her explanation that she was a little overwhelmed by events rang true enough.

"Are you sure you'll be okay, Ma'am?" Trip asked dubiously.

She patted his arm reassuringly. "I appreciate your concern, Commander, but I'll be fine. Now, you have limited time and probably a great deal to discuss. I suggest you make the most of it." And she set off with a determined stride towards the park.

T'Pol too had a great deal to discuss – with Ambassador Soval – but felt not a flicker of guilt as she followed Trip back to the restaurant. It was not the place she would have chosen for their discussion, but at least it had the advantage of having no beds in it.

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	2. Chapter 2: Trip

Trip was ordinarily a slightly choosy eater, as well as a voracious one. The food on offer was probably pretty average, if not calculated to win any Michelin stars, but today he couldn't give a damn what he ate. Eating was going to be very much the secondary item on the menu, but he had to get something on his plate just to give the two of them an excuse to secure a table.

He helped himself to lasagna and side salad. T'Pol took a cheese salad, and after he'd paid for them both (quelling even the possibility of argument with a single glance), followed him meekly to a corner where a table partly screened by a potted palm offered a modest illusion of privacy.

His emotions had gone through an absolute roller-coaster over the past couple of hours. He'd kept himself going with innumerable cups of coffee, but now felt as if he could do with a beer – several beers, if not several dozen, to help him get a handle on how he was feeling. Still, if he was planning on flying back to Jupiter Station any time in the near future, the beers were a no-no. Maybe once he got back to his quarters he'd break open a bottle and drink to … well, whatever the hell there was going to _be_ to drink to.

There was only one thing he was absolutely sure of right this minute. He and T'Pol were going to talk, and both of them were going to be honest, and if he didn't get the answers he wanted, no, _needed_ , he was going to walk out of here and never set eyes on her again, because he didn't need the pain and he didn't need the bullshit, and she'd handed out more than enough of both before now.

Glad to see her? Like he was glad to see the dawn after a night of storm, and the night since he'd left _Enterprise_ had been the longest of his life. But he'd been doing his utter and absolute damnedest to heal the wounds in his soul she'd gouged out of it last time, and if it had been up to him he'd have avoided seeing her at all, because even the darkness of a stormy night was easier to bear than the devastation of good daylight showing him that the woman he loved wouldn't fight for what he'd thought they had.

Fate had dictated otherwise. They were here now, and somehow, _somehow_ what she'd been through had broken open that Vulcan reserve she'd used as a shield to block him out and push him away. She'd clung to him, kissed him, called him her beloved – behaved like she couldn't give a damn that other people were in the room. For a time they'd even been like they used to be back on _Enterprise_ , before the Xindi Weapon carved a hole in the Earth's crust, teasing each other in the way that had first warned him he was falling for her; except that now there was warmth behind her Vulcan put-downs, and he could kiss her like they were in love….

 _Were_ they in love?

Of his own feelings he had no doubt at all. The passion she'd woken in him had shown his previous feelings for Natalie and her predecessors for the ephemeral things they were. But in his eyes love wasn't enough without commitment, and her antics had driven him absolutely crazy, until at last – finding that she saw no reason for revealing their relationship and fighting the world for acceptance of it – he'd taken refuge in flight, telling himself furiously that she'd soon get over a man for whom she cared so little.

The work waiting for him at the Jupiter shipyards in the frenzied preparations for war had been more than enough to take his mind off his romantic troubles. For most of the time, during the day at least, he'd been too busy even to remember he had a heart to have a constant ache in; evenings were the periods that comprised catching something to eat and then catching up on the paperwork, not a period of rest. Night had been the time when, more often than not, he just reeled away from his desk and passed out on the sofa in his office, saving him time going home and getting undressed and then having to repeat the process in reverse to come back again five or six hours later. To get the full value of heartbreak, you must have time to feel it – and time, for Trip Tucker, had been an enemy forever on his heels.

Every now and then, however… something would bring her to mind: a snatch of Vulcan overheard in a corridor, or a song on the radio, or just a bowl of breadsticks in the canteen. And then the pain would come crashing through the numbness, each time less bearable than the last.

He'd toughed it out. He _would_ get through this. Some day there would be a time when he'd hear Vulcan spoken, hear songs on the radio, even see breadsticks in the canteen and not feel a damn thing.

It was just that it hadn't happened yet….

"Ashayam."

It took him a moment to react. He'd been staring down at his lasagna, which was going cold. He was hungry, but his hunger was less real than the woman sitting opposite him.

"T'Pol." Her name sounded strange in his mouth, stilted somehow. "Don't call me that if you don't mean it. Just don't."

She hadn't picked up her knife and fork. She was just sitting there looking at him.

After a moment, she extended her hand across the table, thumb and two outer fingers lightly folded inwards to leave the joined middle and index fingers extended.

The gesture seemed to be waiting for some response, so after a couple of seconds he returned it, slowly.

Their first touch was tentative, feather-light. It was strange, after the way they'd clung and kissed earlier on, but he concentrated his whole attention on the place where skin touched skin so lightly and carefully. She began at the base of his fingers and hers traveled slowly, so slowly, upwards from there; never losing contact, never increasing the pressure as it crested the top and continued down the other side. Her gaze was so fixed on it that he could almost imagine she was experiencing every individual ridge and hollow of his skin, imprinting it on her memory.

She reached the base and stopped. So in his turn he did the same, stroking gently up her motionless fingers.

It was quite surreal.

He had not quite reached the base before she spoke. "I was wrong."

He kept moving. "In what way?"

"I was wrong to believe that there is something to be ashamed of in what we have. Wrong to try to hide it. Wrong to care more for what others thought than for what my Bondmate thought. Wrong to make you suffer when my whole duty should have been to cherish you, in the way the oldest and most venerable Vulcan tradition teaches bondmates should cherish one another.

"I am truly sorry, Trip."

He didn't lift his gaze. Not even when his fingers stopped and hers took over again, in a slow, almost sensual caress: like their fingers were kissing each other.

"This is called the _ozh'esta_ ," she said almost in a whisper. "It is only performed between bondmates, offered to one's _t'hy'la…_ one's soulmate."

 _"T'hy'la_ ," he whispered. "I want to hear you say it. About me. To me."

He looked up at her face then, watched her lips form the word. Beautiful, kissable lips. Beautiful eyes. Beautiful face. Beautiful ears, with their cute points. Beautiful long, elegant neck. Beautiful… _heck, let's not go there, this is a public place and once I get started…._ " _T'hy'la."_

"When we have eaten, I would like us to go to the Vulcan Consulate," she continued, and then hesitated. "If you are willing… I wish to declare our bond before Ambassador Soval."

He could feel the smile trying to break out. He controlled it firmly. "Guess that'll depend on what'll happen when you do that."

"What will happen?" She looked up at him at last. "We will have declared ourselves betrothed. Then whatever has to happen, will happen."

It was no use; the grin was going to happen whether he allowed it to or not. "On Earth, darlin', people aren't 'betrothed' till one or the other of 'em's asked the other one to marry them."

"If that is a Human requirement, then one of us will have to carry it out," she said seriously. "Do you have any preferences which it should be?"

"Well, I think we can have a discussion about that," he replied. "But one thing we definitely are _not_ goin' to do is get 'betrothed' in a hospital canteen!"

Disengaging his fingers, he sat back in his chair, studying her closely. "I'll do it – on one condition."

"And what is that?"

"That you kiss me. Here. Now."

For all that they were in a relatively secluded corner, there were still a decent number of people nearby. She'd already attracted some attention, being a Vulcan as well as a beautiful woman. It was unlikely in the extreme that nobody would notice.

"I do not find that condition acceptable, Trip." She lifted the napkin from her lap, folded it neatly and put it down beside her plate.

Watching her, Trip was conscious of a wrenching pang of despair and disappointment, for even in the face of everything that had gone before, hope had sprung up in him already that this time it would be different. He held his ground, however; if she wouldn't even kiss him here, what the hell were the chances she'd tough it out in the face of the reaction from Starfleet and the High Command? "Then I guess there's nothing more to say. That's my condition – take it or leave it."

"I prefer to leave it. Do you wish to eat your dinner?"

Food was the last thing on his mind. Even apart from the fact it would have gone stone cold by this time, the thought of putting anything in his stomach now was nauseating. He shook his head, clamping his mouth shut on the bitter things that sprang to his tongue. For a moment – just for one wonderful, amazing moment….

It seemed she wasn't hungry either. They both carried their trays to the trolley in the central area, and slid them into the empty slots. As he pushed his home and turned away, Trip promised himself in a haze of fury and grief that this was finally, once and for all, the end. He was through being fooled and used–

Her hands closed on his jacket so hard that it was a wonder the seams didn't give way. His brain didn't have time to react before her tongue was in his mouth, but his body picked up the theme like lightning, wrapping his arms around her and dragging her close while the two of them kissed like there was no-one else in the world, the core and focus of an entire interested restaurant.

If he'd had leisure to notice or even enough interest to care, the reaction was mixed. There was some hissing and cat-calling, but mostly there was applause as the two of them finally broke apart.

"I believe the Human term is 'Gotcha'," T'Pol observed, with what was definitely a twinkle.

"T'Pol, if I didn't think I'd get both of us slung out of here I'd smack your butt." He kissed her again. "We just wasted two perfectly good dinners just so you could make a _point._ "

"If it is Earth tradition not to get betrothed in a hospital restaurant, then after we have spoken to Soval we should find some more suitable establishment. Ms St Clair may wish to accompany us."

A third kiss was practically mandatory as the two of them walked towards the door, sped on their way by more applause. "I'll bet my bottom dollar that's absolutely the _last_ thing Ms St Clair will want to do. She's already walked away because she doesn't want to be the third wheel."

"But what does impersonating the stabilizer of a bicycle have to do with accompanying us to a restaurant…?"

 **The End**


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